


Rough Nights Apart

by Witete



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Torture, Post-Episode: s02e20 Weirdmageddon 3: Take Back the Falls, Seizures, Stan O' War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 13:16:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7269775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Witete/pseuds/Witete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Stan twins receive a phone call at three in the morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rough Nights Apart

**Author's Note:**

> Excuse me while I implement about forty headcanons into this little drabble.
> 
> This is based on a comic by Almeow on tumblr: http://almeow.tumblr.com/post/145228323687/rough-nights-apart-i-spend-a-lot-of-time-thinking

The car hit a bump in the road and his head smacked hard against the top of the trunk, sending wavelengths of pain through his skull. He hissed through his teeth as his captors jeered mockingly ahead of him, reveling in his obvious pain. He reached instinctively to rub his head, only to find, again, that his hands were bound by cuffs of cold, hard steel.  
He was swathed in inky blackness, unable to decipher the top to the bottom without the help of the uneven gravel road. He panted heavily and sweat dripped relentlessly from his forehead into his eyes. He could feel the sun’s horrible, relentless heat barreling down on the car. The trunk trapped the thick heat the same way sponge absorbed water. Discomfort and pain beyond anything he had ever experienced had caused him to squirm and moan, the chains that confined his wrists and ankles chafing against his skin. He didn’t need sight to know that his skin was definitely broken and bleeding. The stab wound in his side burned into his lungs and every breath was a struggle for the already scarce air. His throat was dry and his lips were bleeding.  
Ten minutes he was stuck in this trunk.  
Or maybe it was fifteen…or…twenty?  
He was suffering from delirium and shock. He couldn't even think straight anymore.  
His head hurt too much.  
The car's loud, rumbling engine curled itself deep inside his head, compressing his ears and drilling relentlessly into his throbbing skull. It was a rhythmic hum and the more he listened to it, the more it made his head pulse. He arched his back as far as he could, trying fruitlessly to escape the loud, drawl that was the engine. The only thing he gained from the action was a harsh, blooming pain that burned through his chest. He choked on a scream of agony and collapsed to his back, his breath shuddering through his throat.  
He smacked his head against the trunk again, purposefully this time, trying to either rid himself of the sound or knock himself out. Either way, it would make the pain stop.  
_Permanently if he was lucky._  
Would it be luck? Did it matter? He was dead anyways. If the stab wound wasn't enough to do him in, then the guys laughing and drinking up front just might.  
He almost smiled at the thought; all of his heists and all of his cons, only to get stabbed in the back, quite literally, when the man up front didn’t get what he wanted. Stan understood the notion, but unlike Jorge, he wouldn’t fucking _kill_ someone if they were moral enough not to become a drug mule.  
There were a lot of things Stan would do, but shoving cocaine pellets down his gullet was a bit much, even for him- and much less for the person who tended to swindle out of deals.  
Stan supposed it was almost hypocritical, but his cons were mostly harmless- they never swerved out of a bruised jawbone if they caught on- a cracked rib if they were particularly unlucky.  
Unfortunately, some people were not as kind.  
A sound escaped his chapped lips, halfway between a sob and a laugh. This was it. He was going to die.  
It wasn’t quite the implication of death that made dry tears spring in his eyes. It was the fact that nobody would be there to mourn- nobody would find his mutilated corpse, left to rot in the hot New Mexico sun.  
Maybe it would be better.  
No, he wasn’t scared of death  
Everyone dies at one point or another.  
No, Stan was selfish. He wanted someone to remember him.  
His half sound of laughter shifted into full on, dry sobbing.  
He wanted his mother’s sweet, soothing voice. He wanted to hear her one more time, even if it was to tell him to hang up and never call again. He wanted to breathe in her perfume and know she was present.  
Stan wanted his jovial laughter. Stan wanted to see his bright smile and wanted to listen to his voice, even though his drawls meant little to him. He wanted to see his six fingered hand and Stan nearly slapped himself for doing so.  
God- he wanted Ford.  
He wanted his brother back.  
Despite the burning sense of betrayal and hate that felt permanently scalded inside his heart, the flower of love still existed. It was burrowed deep inside his soul, waiting for winter to end so it could bloom again. Stan realized instantly that spring would never get the chance to come.  
He was going to die in the cold arms of winter and there was no worse fate than that.  
His brother _hated_ him- his mother _hated_ him and he still _loved_ them.  
He would die hated, surrounded by the false hope that he was still _loved._  
There was another bump in the road and his head slammed again into the trunk. The violent vibrations of the car did nothing to cover the scream of agony that ripped out of his throat.  
He was teetering on the edge. He couldn’t hold on anymore. He was usually never one to give up and die, but it wasn’t really giving up if there was nothing to _give up._

He woke up.  
The sounds didn’t leave. The pain still drilled through his head like a buzz saw.  
He panted heavily, his chest heaving and his hands grasping at his wrists in phantom pain. His head throbbed and his sweat lined his brow. His throat still felt dry and a tingle burrowed deep in his side.  
_How am I not dead,_ he thought helplessly, reaching his somehow free hands into the black abyss above his head.  
_Maybe I am dead._  
His fingers brushed against the surface of the trunk, but it wasn't the hard, hot metal he expected. Instead it was softer and smoother. Gentle scratches and nicks were embedded in the surface. It was cool and it smelled of salt.  
"Wood." He muttered helplessly.  
Like a crashing wave, it all came rushing back.  
He released a breath, the wind whooshing through his chest like a burst of fresh air.  
He wasn't in a trunk; at least, not anymore.  
He was on a boat, specifically the Stan-O-War II with his twin brother, Stanford.  
He was okay. He was safe.  
And he was _loved._  
He tentatively rubbed the aching spot on his forehead, the spot he had slammed against the wood in his nightmare. The gravel under the wheels of the car was actually the rolling, storm-induced choppiness of the waves underneath the hull of the boat. Thunder growled in the distance and a buoy sang close by.  
But the thing that troubled him was the sound of the engine, humming inside his head. It felt like something that had never actually left. It felt permanently scarred inside his head. Like no matter how many lapses he had, no matter how many times his mind was actually erased, it would never leave.  
It was inborn- like breathing.  
"Stanley," a voice groaned sleepily from the bunk above him, forcing him out of his stupor.  
"Pick up the cell, please. Ask them why they're calling at three in the morning."  
Oh. Well...  
Stanley supposed that made sense too. Now that he listened to the rhythmic vibrations, the more it did sound like one of the cell phones that his grand niblings had talked their grunkles into getting.  
Stanley turned his head a little, his eyes adjusting in the dark. Moonlight streamed through the porthole, washing the bedroom in a soft white-blue light. The clutter of papers, clothes and strange objects that lined the floor seemed to glow in the gentle caress of the light. The vibrating phone sat on the bedside table, the harsher light blurring his vision.  
The person above him, Stanford, gave a short, dry laugh. "The one time I actually manage to fall asleep at a decent time," he muttered softly to himself.  
"I'm on it, Sixer." Stan croaked and reached for the small device. Eyes blurry with sleep and old age, he couldn't quiet see the name or number of the caller displayed on the screen.  
He did manage to press the green button on the bottom corner and he lifted it up to his ear.  
"Hello?" He asked in a rough whisper, hearing his brother shift above him. "It's three in the morning who is-"  
Before he could even finish his sentence, he was interrupted by a distorted static on the other line. He listened confusedly for a moment before realizing it wasn't static.  
It was crying. Someone was crying.  
"G-Grunkle Stan?" The voice sniffed softly.  
Instantly, Stan sat up, careful to not bump his aching head on the bunk again.  
"Mabel? Sweetie, what's wrong? A-are you okay?"  
His heart lurched as he listened to her soft sobbing through the receiver.  
Ford made a sound above him and could feel his weight shift over the banister of the top bunk to peer down at him.  
"B-Bill was- Bill hurt yo-u,” she managed through a strained, tear-stained voice. “-and then he- he was gonna hurt me-" she took a gasping breath that sounded like she was in physical pain.  
Stan made a sound of pain deep inside his throat along with her and gripped the phone tightly. He felt hopelessly desperate, wanting to so badly to just hug her and kiss her and chase away her demons.  
Like a bullet shot from a gun, he felt a deep, resonating anger fire through his chest. His fist curled defensively against the phone, going momentarily deaf to Mabel's soft crying.  
_Bill,_ he snarled inwardly, clenching his jaw so hard he though his teeth would shatter. _If you are hangin' around in my head like Ford thinks you are, you're gonna wish you weren't you fucking piece of garbage scrap._  
"I-it was so hard to b-bre-breathe."  
When she spoke, Stan's heart melted. His fury was forgotten as she hiccupped painfully. He swallowed his own growing sob of sympathy and he sank further into the bedsheets.  
"Mabel, I'm right here- don't worry." He said softly, wanting with all his soul to reassure her and calm her- tell her everything was all okay. It was over.  
"J-just listen to my voice, sweetie. Breathe in then breathe out."  
He waited as he listened to her steady her breathing. It took her a good two minutes before her sobbing was stifled to exhausted sniffles.  
"It was just a nightmare, Mabel. You're in your bed at home, safe." He reassured softly, barely noticing as Ford slowly made his way down the ladder on the side of the bed to sit down beside him.  
"Your brother is there, right?" He continued quietly, listening to her answer with a soft "Mmhm."  
"Reach out and feel his hand."  
There was a soft silence as she went to do that.  
Stan released a breath he was holding and turned to Ford. In the soft moonlight he could see his face was drawn in a look of hopelessness and fear. His eyes were soft and his posture was loose.  
Ford never really liked dealing with emotions, Stan found out.  
Stan figured that Ford thought it was just _easier_ to suck it up and push through- at least, when it came to him. When Ford obtained an injury where stitches were necessary, he brushed it off and insisted he’s had worse. Stan believed him. Hell, he’d seen the scars. When Ford slipped back into an old habit and he was found in their room, slumped on the floor with a half downed bottle of bourbon, he insisted that it wasn’t Stan’s problem to deal with.  
However, when it came to others, especially those in his family, the smallest scratch on them would attract his full, undivided attention. Stan pointed out how hypocritical that was of him, but God forbid if he would listen.  
All in all, Ford may be smart, but he was shit at dealing with the chemicals that flooded inside his blown head.  
To hear Mabel in such distress probably filled his heart with choking fear.  
Stan wondered for a split moment if it would almost be too much for him.  
After the torture he received as a renowned resident in Bill’s castle, Ford’s heart had taken a beating.  
When he was diagnosed with a form of epilepsy in a hospital off the coast of Canada after a truly horrifying incident, it, for once, actually rendered him speechless.  
Even he couldn’t lie and say he had had worse.  
Stan’s face must’ve contorted in fear because Ford seemed to grasp what he was thinking and gave him a small, tired smile that seemed to say 'hey, I'm fine- don't worry about me.'  
_As per fuckin’ usual._  
Stan returned his smile with a defeated sigh and turned his attention back on the phone, not looking away from Ford.  
"Are you still there, sweetie? Ford's here too."  
The only confirmation that she was still there was the soft sniffles that moved like wind through the receiver.  
"We defeated Bill," he said confidently, casting Ford a sidelong glance. "He isn't going to hurt you or your brother."  
He drew a sigh. "Weirdmageddon is over."  
There was another drawn silence, as if Mabel wasn't entirely convinced it was over. Deep inside, Stan wasn't sure either.  
He wasn't sure if Bill was actually dead or not.  
He wasn't sure if the rift could somehow open again and unleash hell.  
He wasn't sure the terrors would ever stop.  
However, he was positive that no matter what would happen, they would be together through thick and thin; rain or sunshine.  
He had never been positive about a lot of things.  
But _that_ \- that he was positive about.  
'Til death dealt them in, they would never leave each other hanging.  
Not anymore.  
"Mabel, princess," Ford said suddenly, his voice soft and gentle. Stan turned the phone slightly closer to him as he leaned in a little. "I have nightmares too-" he continued. "-about Bill too. They can be scary, but I promise you they're not real," he paused again and stared at Stan with an unwavering gaze. The visible agony that had shadowed his face a moment ago seemed to melt away from his features and was replaced with a hard, determined gaze. Stan knew that look and it made his lips curl in a slight smile.  
Ford dawned that look whenever he knew he had won a bet. He dawned that look when he was positive that he was right.  
"He's gone."  
Ford’s resolute gaze didn’t waver as the words left his tongue and he smiled a little. Stan looked at him softly and dubiously for a second before Ford’s smile reflected on his face.  
Mabel hiccupped. "Yeah, Bill's gone. I-it's over."  
"And if you ever doubt it," Ford whispered, his voice asserting, but reassuring. "You can call us."  
There was another long moment of silence before the elder twins heard the young girl smile a little on the other end.  
"Thank you guys," she said softly. "I'm starting to feel better now."  
"That's good sweetheart." Stan smiled. "Will you be okay?"  
"Y-yes Grunkle Stan." She said and Stan could almost see her nodding.  
"Okay. Goodnight, sweetie." Stan said quietly tilting the phone as Ford bid her the same.  
The instant Stan felt the words leave his lips, a sudden wave of hopelessness grasped at his throat. The phone almost slipped from his fingers as he tried to stifle his own assault of emotions rolling off in choking sobs.  
"Good night Grunkle Stan and Grunkle Ford," she murmured tiredly, unaware of her great uncle's sudden wave of agony.  
"I love you."  
At that, Stan shoved the phone in Ford's hand as the young girl hung up and he cradled his head in his hands, a sob wracking through his body. Ford had given a sound of surprise as the device was passed to him, but Stan didn’t notice.  
His agony seemingly came without warning and it delivered a left hook into his gut. His cheeks and neck flushed with heat and his eyes watered painfully.  
"Lee?" Ford said suddenly and anxiously, placing a hand on Stan's shaking shoulder. His grip was tight, but gentle at the same time.  
"What the fuck are we doing?" Stan crumbled helplessly after a heaving breath, looking up at Ford with dim, tear-brimmed eyes.  
Ford blinked in surprise and his mouth opened to respond, but Stan didn't notice. His mind was too antagonized to move outside his own thoughts.  
He felt like he was back in his dream. The feel of that inky helplessness sunk inside his bones and rattled deep inside his marrow. His chest had a gaping hole blown through the middle, pain rippling through his body like a wildfire. Self-hate and agony struck him over and over, resulting in horrible, choked sobs.  
"I should be there to protect them," he finally managed, speaking through his fingers. "It's my fault they're hurting."  
_"My fault_ Stanley," Ford corrected gently and he put a heavy, scarred arm around Stan's shoulders.  
Stanley snorted at the correction and looked at Ford. His previously kind gaze delved into something…darker. His face shadowed again and the wrinkles under his eyes seemed to darken. The sudden change in appearance instantly reminded Stan of the first time they had met after ten years. Ford was unshaven, unkempt and wild-eyed, living on only coffee for God knows how long. He had yelled about eye theft and not knowing who to trust. That’s what he said before…it all went wrong.  
Ford had been living and breathing hell for years, alcohol throwing him into the only sleep he could obtain during that time- if you could even call it sleep.  
Ever since he had gotten back from the portal, no matter how many times he fought with his twin, always there were the remains of self-hate and agony. Stan had realized this when they had finally talked about it on one of the first nights on the Stan-O-War II.  
They were both suffering from their own hells. They found solace in each other.  
They never had to face their horrors alone. Unfortunately, after living with their own hells for forty years, it’s unreasonably difficult to drop it in a few months.  
But it was a start. Even if they had only a few more decades of life in them, it was a start.  
But no matter how much coaxing, no matter how much apologizing, Ford still deeply hated himself for everything that had happened ever since Stan was kicked out. Every time Stan said the words ‘my fault,’ Ford pounced on him and insisted he did nothing wrong.  
Arguing with the man was very difficult, but seeing him in so much mental agony was painful for Stanley.  
He tried his best every time.  
And every time, they hugged, smiled and apologized.  
"Besides," Ford continued, his face lightening a little, his voice taking a wistful tone. "We're doing the best we can."  
He took in a deep breath and rested his chin on Stan's shoulder. His breath tickled Stan’s neck and Stan leaned his cheek on the top of his messy, fluffy hair. He released a tired, shuddering sigh.  
"They're safe."

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed!  
> Request things for me to write in the comments below!  
> Edit: Fixed incorrect word usage


End file.
